Small Comforts
by Musafreen
Summary: Post Revelation. Jean Berenson tries to chase away her son's nightmares.


**Timeline:** Post- Revelation and Marco's 'funeral.'

**Author's Notes:** I'm not too happy with this, as the drama could have been done a lot better. Still...

* * *

His arms flailed briefly before his eyes shot open.

Jean almost winced at how hard he clutched at her arm, but what really made her want to cry was the look in his eyes. Her baby boy was obviously hurting; his eyes were wild and bloodshot, and there were prominent dark circles under them. His mouth was half-open in a silent expression of horror. And his stance-

Jean composed herself and spoke, "Jake? Honey, it's me. It's Mom. You were having a nightmare."

He stared at her soundlessly for a few seconds before comprehension dawned on his face and his head snapped out of whatever horrorverse he'd been into. Comprehension was quickly replaced by mortification.

"Mom," he muttered, dropping her arm and raking a hand through his hair. It trembled; hell, all of him trembled. He was shaking like a leaf, "Sorry. I just-"

Jean pulled him into a hug before he could complete the sentence.

Holding him like this brought back memories of all those times he'd gotten scared over cheesy horror flicks and had ended up crawling into bed between her and Steve. He'd been what, eight or something? Tiny and cute and hanging onto his beloved older brother like an omnipresent tail. Jean remembered how _small_ he'd seemed to her back then, and how proportionately microscopic all his problems had been. It took all of a casual reassurance or a firm hug to chase them away, and everything was back to normal.

Jake, who'd been holding himself stiffly all this while, melted reluctantly into her hug. Jean tightened her grip.

What did you say to a sixteen-year old whose best friend since second grade was dead?

"I'm so sorry," she told him, pressing her nose into his hair. She felt so inadequate, "Jake, honey. I'm sorry and I don't know what to say, but I know I love you and Dad loves you and Tom loves you and it's going to be okay someday."

He didn't say anything, but he did hug her tighter. Almost as if he was trying to reassure _her._ It almost broke her heart.

He was staring to scare her. Marco was dead – a fact she still couldn't come into terms with – and Jake hadn't reacted. The boys were (_had been_) siblings, practically, and one week after the funeral, she still had to see her son cry even once. And then there were the nightmares.

Every. Single. Night. Whenever she woke up worried to check on him, her son would be immersed in some horrific scenario or the other. She'd heard him mutter out names in agonized whispers. Cassie. Marco. And Tom, mostly. He thrashed around in his bed sometimes, fists clenched. And whenever she witnessed him waking up, he was like _that;_ wild-eyed, horrified and ready for fight or flight, whichever was required. And all she'd done so far was watch.

"Jake, this is bad," she said, "the nightmares. Maybe we should-"

He shook his head. "I'll be fine-"

"Yeah. But- but for now, if you want me to sleep here or-"

He pulled himself out of her arms gently, rubbing his forehead, "Mom, I'll be fine," he sighed, "Really. I'm just… not getting too much sleep these days, okay? Just- give me some- I'll be fine."

Jean wasn't convinced, but she really wasn't in a position to do anything more about it.

"You know, Marco would want you to be happy."

Jake smiled, a little wanly.

"You know him. If he were here, he'd roll his eyes and laugh at you," her throat lumped up, "and he'd get you off that bed and-"

He reached up and wiped the tears off her face, "Yeah, he would."

Jean kissed her son's hand, and wrapped him up in a hug again. This time, she didn't let go until he'd fallen asleep in her arms.

* * *

"How is he?" Steve asked as soon as she entered the kitchen.

"Bad," she said, "_I_ ended up crying. And those nightmares of his-"

He husband stared moodily at his beer can, "Dawson thinks it might be repression of feelings."

"You had to go to a psychiatrist to know that?" Jean asked, sitting down across the table from him, "I'm worried, Steve. He's obviously hurting, but he refuses to show it. And like I said, the nightmares-" she shuddered, "I think he sees every one of his friends dying, and Tom too. And he blames himself for everything. Steve, what are we going to _do?_"

He sighed, "Jake's strong. He'll get through it eventually."

"That's my baby up there,' Jean said quietly, "And all I can do is watch him suffer. I don't like it at all."

He placed his hand on top of her and squeezed it. Jean squeezed back.

Someone coughed from the doorway, "Am I interrupting something?"

"Tom, come give me a hug." Jean ordered, turning in her chair. Her eldest complied, grinning widely.

"Why are you up at three in the morning?" Steve demanded.

"Couldn't sleep," Tom shrugged, "Then I checked on the midget."

"Is he okay?" Jean asked.

"Sleeping," Tom said, frowning, "Mom, he-"

"I _know_. I just don't know what to do."

"He's not talking much to me, either," Tom sat next to her, "Then I tried getting him to come with me to one of the Sharing things. It didn't work out."

"Poor baby," Jean said. "I wish he'd cry, at least."

"I know. He's freakishly stoic about all this," Tom sighed, "I'm not sure if it's a good thing."

Jean sagged again. He must be in so much pain and-

"Jean. It's going to be okay," Steve told her, squeezing her hand again, "we're going to be there for him, all of us. He'll be okay."

She nodded, and took comfort in that small fact.

* * *

**Author's Notes****: **About the last sentence; what can I say? I worship the irony gods.


End file.
